Largo laughed sharply. He stitched gaiety and bravado back on his face. “Aha!” His voice was boisterous again. “My friend wishes to put the evil eye upon my cards. We have a way to deal with that where I come from.” He lifted a hand, and with only the first and little fingers outstretched in a fork, he prodded once, like a snake striking toward Bond’s face. To the crowd it was a playful piece of theater, but Bond, within the strong aura of the man’s animal magnetism, felt the ill temper, the malevolence behind the old Mafia gesture.
Bond laughed good-naturedly. “That certainly put the hex on me. But what did it do to the cards? Come on, your spectre against my spectre!”
Again the look of doubt came over Largo’s face. Why again the use of this word? He gave the shoe a hefty slap. “All right, my friend. We are wrestling the best of three falls. Here comes the third.”
Quickly his first two fingers licked out the four cards. The table had hushed. Bond faced his pair inside his hand. He had a total of five—a ten of clubs and a five of hearts. Five is a marginal number. One can either draw or not. Bond folded the cards face down on the table. He said, with the confident look of a man who has a six or a seven, “No card, thank you.”
Largo’s eyes narrowed as he tried to read Bond’s face. He turned up his cards, flicked them into the middle of the table with a gesture of disgust. He also had a count of five. Now what was he to do? Draw or not draw? He looked again at the quiet smile of confidence on Bond’s face—and drew. It was a nine, the nine of spades. By drawing another card instead of standing on his five and equaling Bond, he had drawn and now had a four to Bond’s five.
Impassively Bond turned up his cards. He said, “I’m afraid you should have killed the evil eye in the pack, not in me.”
There was a buzz of comment round the table. “But if the Italian had stood on his five . . .” “I always draw on a five.” “I never do.” “It was bad luck.” “No, it was bad play.”
Now it was an effort for Largo to keep the snarl off his face. But he managed it, the forced smile lost its twist, the balled fists relaxed. He took a deep breath and held out his hand to Bond. Bond took it, folding his thumb inside his palm just in case Largo might give him a bone-crusher with his vast machine tool of a hand. But it was a firm grasp and no more. Largo said, “Now I must wait for the shoe to come round again. You have taken all my winnings. I have a hard evening’s work ahead of me just when I was going to take my niece for a drink and a dance.” He turned to Domino. “My dear, I don’t think you know Mr. Bond, except on the telephone. I’m afraid he has upset my plans. You must find someone else to squire you.”
Bond said, “How do you do. Didn’t we meet in the tobacconist’s this morning?”
The girl screwed up her eyes. She said indifferently, “Yes? It is possible. I have such a bad memory for faces.”
Bond said, “Well, could I give you a drink? I can just afford even a Nassau drink now, thanks to the generosity of Mr. Largo. And I have finished here. This sort of thing can’t last. I mustn’t press my luck.”
The girl got up. She said ungraciously, “If you have nothing better to do.” She turned to Largo: “Emilio, perhaps if I take this Mr. Bond away, your luck will turn again. I will be in the supper room having caviar and champagne. We must try and get as much of your funds as we can back in the family.”
Largo laughed. His spirits had returned. He said, “You see, Mr. Bond, you are out of the frying pan into the fire. In Dominetta’s hands you may not fare so well as in mine. See you later, my dear fellow. I must now get back to the salt mines where you have consigned me.”